The Jack Hansard Series: Season Two

Episode 8.2

No time to mourn, even as I spend whole minutes on my back, sniffling at the ceiling. Our chaos has set off an alarm somewhere. All its blaring can't take my mind off've the dreadful sights I just witnessed.

I think myself into iron. One by one my muscles clench; the tears dry on my cheeks. There are pounding footsteps approaching the door and I need to find strength.

I stand, throw the fripperies of human disguise on the floor. I'll be all coblyn if I die here now.

I have the weight of families pressing down on my shoulders. I shall carry them like a strong oak beam lifting up a mine shaft. I shall bring the ruin of earth and fire upon those what done this.

The door opens. People in black uniforms pile in. Shocked, they are, at the devastation. Then they spy me.

I feel so violently full of rage I should be shaking, but I am still as a dead thing, surrounded by sparkling debris.

One of them inches round. They have called for backup into their radios. I sneer. Their nametags say 'Security' but all I see is monsters. They have blocked the path to the door, but I do not care.

I bend and scrape my hands through the glass. One fistful of glittering pain, and one large sliver of evil sharpness.

I roar a thunder of grief at them and charge. I fling the glass shards into the eyes of the first man that tries to grab me. The second gets a deep slice across the thigh. Another slashes his own hand as he tries to seize my wrist, and my teeth ensure he loses at least one finger.

Then my body sizzles and spasms – a great shock of pain from head to toe – and I'm left motionless on the floor. Another shock and I helplessly spasm again.

'Enough,' one of them pants. 'Don't kill it.'

'Did you see what it did to my fucking hand?'

'Sure. But do you see all this lost product? They'll want this one, mark my words.'

The world is swimming in my eyes. I can't tell what's up or down. My last thoughts are of my mam before darkness closes in.

* * *

When I wakes up, it's on hard metal bars. There's a single towel layered between me and the steel, but it don't give any real reflief. Sore all over, I am, and feel I've slept crooked. I was dumped in here, I realise, in an untidy heap, knees and elbows akimbo.

I groan low and ease my throbbing neck into a stretch. Gradually I sits upright, hazy on the size and shape of the cage I'm in. Only just enough room to sit up with my legs out – my boots press against the front bars. There's horrid bright light overhead, reflecting off every surface. It's all blurs, but I can hear breathin'.

'Ye damn . . . evil . . . cythreuliaid. Devils, all. I hopes ye . . . I hopes ye burn . . .'

Me voice is parched for water, lips feel puffy and cracked. But an equally hoarse voice answers, 'Hush, lass. Rest.'

I fix my eyes in its direction. The outline is next to me, separated by another wall of bars. 'Are ye coblyn?'

'Knocker,' it replies. 'But the Welsh ones are down there.'

My vision is strengthening, and I force my head to turn where his finger points. There be cages all around the room. Some of them are empty.

Near the floor, there are familiar faces.

I shoot forward, press my face into the bars. 'Adda! Lowri! Huw! Hark at me!'

Eyes turned upward, but with grief rather than hope. 'Angharad! Not you, too.'